


Mutualism

by apliddell



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Seven Minutes In Heaven, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, rituals for catharsis, slumber party, the rewards of being loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 13:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21037079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: After a bit of self reflection, Aziraphale begins to realise that he's hasn't been as kind to Crowley as he should have been and decides the first step to repairing that is honesty.





	Mutualism

After all of it, after the armawotsit that didn’t quite, there seemed to be no reason left for Crowley not to admit that he craved his angel’s company and missed him when they were parted. Crowley was still reluctant to admit it. He didn’t know why. After a week in a row of not admitting it and two weeks of pretending he didn’t mind his phone calls going unanswered and another week of wondering if doing something silly would be better than doing nothing, Crowley decided to drop by and visit Aziraphale. 

Crowley strolled chalantly to the door of the bookshop with a box of chocolates under one arm and found it was shut and dark. There was a thriving spiderweb stretched across the top of the door, and just above the handle, a handwritten notice that read, Do Go Away. Crowley tried hard not to notice his insides had turned to something like ice water. 

He put one palm to the door, “Do you mind? I’m quite erm.” The door swung open. “Thanks,” Crowley entered and shut the door carefully behind him. It was dark and smelled of the drains and of slowly rotting paper and nothing of brimstone or fire at all. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice echoed a bit in the empty shop. “Aziraphale.” he called a bit louder, against the ice water feeling rising in him. “Aziraphale? Are you there? Where are you?” 

Just as Crowley was beginning to cede to panic, he heard some soft stirring, thumping sounds above him and sheepishly remembered Aziraphale’s flat above the shop. He made for the door to the stairs up to the living area, and it opened when he reached it. 

Aziraphale was behind the door dressed in a tartan dressing gown over a nightshirt, fluffy slippers, and an actual night cap, “Oh, hello my dear.”

“Hey Angel,” Crowley bit his lip against a relieved smile. “Why’re you dressed like Ebeneezer Scrooge?” 

Aziraphale smiled faintly, drew one hand down the chest of his nightshirt, “I don’t use this kit all that often, so I hardly ever replace things.” 

Crowley frowned, “Have I just waked you? You’ve been asleep?”

“Oh yes, just a little rest. Have I missed an appointment with you, my dear?”

“Not exactly,” said Crowley reluctantly. “Only you have been gone a month.” 

“Have I? Good heavens,” Aziraphale muffled a yawn in his sleeve. “I suppose I ought to get up, then. Come up and have a cup of tea?” He stepped back from the doorway to admit Crowley. 

“Yeah, all right,” said Crowley and followed Aziraphale upstairs. 

Aziraphale ushered Crowley into his tiny kitchen and pulled out a chair for him, “Won’t you sit.”

Crowley dropped into the chair, “Thanks.” He held out the box of chocolates, “These are for you.”

“Oh thank you, dearest,” said Aziraphale and he put the box on the table near Crowley without even prising off the lid and experimentally pinching half a dozen or so. 

Crowley frowned, “Are you all right, Angel?”

“A little at loose ends, I suppose,” Aziraphale said vaguely, beckoning to the teapot. “Milk and sugar?”

“Please.” 

The teapot zoomed across the room to Aziraphale, and he poured out for Crowley and for himself, “I thought a little sleep might help.”

“Has it?”

Aziraphale shrugged, “Not so far.” He drained his teacup in one draught, “I’ll try again.” 

Crowley sipped thoughtfully, trying to ignore the mingling dread and guilt stewing about in his gut, “Please don’t say for the rest of the century.”

Aziraphale smiled, “I shouldn’t think so, dear.” 

“Be a shame to go back to being lonely.” 

“Truly,” said Aziraphale in a voice like a wilted boutonniere. 

“Are you sure you’re all right? Because you look a bit.”

Aziraphale poured himself another cup, “Out of sorts.”

“Yeah. I’ve never known you to sleep like this, Aziraphale,” Crowley put down his cup. “Something’s bothering you. It must be.”

Aziraphale leaned forward on his elbows and rested his head on his hand and even that was rather shocking, “I didn’t think. I never really considered what. It hadn’t occurred to me that there’d actually. Actually be a permanent separation. Not until I was already stumbling over it, you know. Not that I. Regret. Exactly. But it’s.” He sighed, “I suppose what I’ve lost is mainly. Imaginary. Not very clever of me, I suppose. Still.”

“I’m sorry I said that,” said Crowley fervently. 

Aziraphale shut his eyes, “You were right.” 

Crowley wondered if it would be in poor form to turn the tea into something a bit stronger, “You’re free now, though.”

“Yes,” agreed Aziraphale, straightening up. “I expect it’ll feel that way quite soon.” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley groped desperately for something suitable to say, “‘They’re a rotten crowd. You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.’”

Aziraphale’s eyes were very bright but he smiled, “Oh my dear. You’re so kind to me.” He reached out and pressed Crowley’s hand. It was lovely, though it did make Crowley’s brain go rather staticky. 

“Seeing you helped me,” Crowley ventured presently. “When I first-” he checked himself, as Aziraphale hadn’t  _ fallen _ , exactly. Not that it was too late either. Probably a sensitive subject. He let the merest suggestion of his wings drift into existence, feeling it might be more substantive than whatever sort of sentence he could scrape together, “I mean. I’ll look after you. We’re sticking together, yeah? Our side?” 

“Our side, yes. Just so.” Aziraphale blinked hard and yawned, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You going back to bed, Angel?”

Aziraphale shook his head and smothered another yawn down his flannel sleeve, “I’d rather have the company. You wouldn’t exactly stay and watch me have a nap, would you? I can’t imagine I’d be particularly good company.” 

“Actually,” said Crowley recklessly. “There’s this new human custom where they sleep together in little groups for fun.” 

“Little groups,” Aziraphale repeated, a politely puzzled crease forming between his eyebrows. 

Crowley blushed, “Not like. I don’t mean. It’s a young people thing. Little groups of friends get together and have snacks and.” He paused and tried to recall the slumber party he’d been semi-accidentally summoned to a decade and a half or so ago. “You’re already dressed for it, actually. There’s snacks and I think music. We can skip the Ouija board bit. They have other rituals for catharsis that’d probably be more. Suitable.” 

“Rituals for catharsis,” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Is it a new religious movement? I’d think I’d have read about this.” 

“Like I say, it’s quite new,” said Crowley hastily. “Not religious so far as I can tell.”

Aziraphale poured himself another cup of tea, “I see. What sort of snacks?” 

“I don’t think the snacks are prescribed. Shall I just pop out and get some, then?” 

“Thank you, my dear. Jolly good.”

…

“I’d have introduced you to my manicurist, if I’d known you had an interest,” Aziraphale said, delicately swiping jet black nail varnish onto Crowley’s left little finger. 

“You’re doing a fine job. Have you chosen a colour? Did you want the gold or the pink?”

Aziraphale blew at Crowley’s fingernails, “Am I? Thank you, my dear; I’m glad you think so. Er I believe we said the gold was a little young for me.”   
  


“That doesn’t sound like me,” Crowley blew at the nails on his left hand as Aziraphale got to work on his right thumbnail. 

“Perhaps you only said it to agree with me, because you’re so polite.” 

“That does sound like me,” Crowley pushed his shades up onto his head, then thought better of it and tucked them into his breast pocket. “Snack, Angel?”

“Ah, of course.” Aziraphale took a kernel out of the bowl of popcorn beside him and tucked it neatly into Crowley’s mouth. 

“Thanks,” Crowley crunched. “I can manage more than one at a time, though.”

“I’m sure you can, dear,” Aziraphale offered Crowley one of the chocolates next, and he made himself look rather silly by eating it in two bites, as it was large and quite gooey. Aziraphale licked his fingers and went back to attending to Crowley’s manicure. 

“Aren’t you having some? Feels weird eating when you’re not eating.” 

“Oh, when I’ve finished with you, perhaps. Those look scrumptious, by the way.” 

“Don’t deprive yourself on my account,” Crowley selected what might have been a praline from the box with his mostly dry hand and offered it to Aziraphale. Aziraphale accepted and paused in his varnishing duties to savour. 

“Mmmmm, exquisite. Do you remember that little place in St. Jacques with the chocolatier who made all those erm,” Aziraphale made an unspecific sort of hand gesture. 

Crowley smiled into his shoulder, “The marzipan genitalia. I remember.” 

“Yes!” Aziraphale laughed and Crowley ignored the triumphant little flutter in his tummy. “I wonder if that place still exists.”

“I can check, but doubtful. That was nearly two hundred years ago, wasn’t it?” 

“I suppose it was,” said Aziraphale rather dreamily. “I don’t know where the time goes.” 

“Oh there seems to be loads of it about, if you ask me,” Crowley held another chocolate out to Aziraphale, but Aziraphale seemed to have suddenly fallen into a reverie. His face looked far away. “Angel? Everything okay?”

Aziraphale shook his head as if clearing away cobwebs, “Sorry dearest, what were you saying?”

“Er nothing really. You all right?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale shoved the nail brush back into the little pot of varnish. “All done. Doesn’t that look lovely.”

Crowley looked down at his fingers, “You’ve miracled the last three; they look much neater.”

Aziraphale pretended not to hear, “What are the other rituals for catharsis, Crowley? This one isn’t setting in quick enough.” 

Crowley had already decided there wasn’t any point trying to get Aziraphale to admit he was bothered about something, so only got out his phone and brought up a quick internet search, “Hmm all right there’s something called MASH.”

“Sounds messy.” 

“Spin the bottle?”

“The wine would go everywhere; how wasteful.”

“Telephone?”

“We’re both right here; who could we possibly call?”

“Seven minutes in Heaven,” Crowley rather mushed the last two syllables, but Aziraphale was intrigued anyway. 

“Seven minutes in Heaven? That sounds interesting. How does it work?” 

“Hmm,” Crowley glanced through the description of the game and decided he must be reading it wrong. “It doesn’t make much sense. You lock yourselves in a cupboard for seven minutes, and then things go a bit vague.” 

“Huh,” Aziraphale considered. “Perhaps it makes more sense once you’re inside the cupboard?”

“Maybe.” 

Aziraphale got up rather tipsily, “Come along, then. Should I bring the chocolates?” 

“Can’t hurt.” Crowley followed Aziraphale across the room, and Aziraphale pulled his winter coat out of the cupboard and tossed it toward the bed. It should have fallen short of the bed, but it was too polite and landed in the centre instead. 

“After you,” said Aziraphale, gesturing toward the cupboard with the box of chocolates. 

Crowley got in and Aziraphale followed after him and shut the door. The cupboard considerately expanded a bit to make them more comfortable, and they stood in the dark in silence for a moment. 

Presently Crowley sank to the bottom of the cupboard to sit down and Aziraphale sat also, “Chocolate, Crowley?”

“Sure, thanks.” Aziraphale got the box open and passed Crowley a chocolate. “Feel anything yet, Angel?” asked Crowley when he’d finished his chocolate. 

“No, not especially. Not from the cupboard.” 

“Mm, neither do I. Perhaps Mr Tumnus’ll be along in a bit to tell us what we’ve got wrong.” 

Aziraphale laughed quietly, “It is rather soothing, though. Don’t you think? Sitting here in the dark together.” He shifted so that his knee was pressed to Crowley’s, and Crowley thought he’d withdraw it, but he didn’t. 

“Yeah,” said Crowley very belatedly. “It’s sort of comforting.” 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale in a suddenly sort of voice as if he were breaking in on a long silence even though he wasn’t. He patted along Crowley’s knee til he found his hand, “Crowley.”

Crowley tried not to sound alarmed, “Yeah, what is it, Angel?” 

“Have I. Have I been  _ very _ unkind to you?” 

Crowley hesitated because the honest answer was along the lines of  _ sometimes _ , “How’d’y’mean, Aziraphale?” 

“I’ve treated you sometimes as if. As if I didn’t know you better. I  _ am _ sorry, my dear. I’m so terribly sorry. I want to look after you the way you do for me. Because I do. I do care for you so much, my dear. So very much. Have you known? I hope you have,” He pressed Crowley’s hand, and Crowley had to blink hard. 

“Is that what’s upsetting you?” asked Crowley when he’d mostly finished blinking. 

“Well,” Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hand with his thumb, and Crowley hoped fervently that his face wasn’t even a little bit visible in the dark. “I was thinking how. How lucky I am to have you with me to help me cope and how. You were alone when. When She left you. And if I’d had any kind of sense or courage, I’d’ve. I’d. I. I’m sorry, my dear. I’m terribly, so awfully sorry.” 

“She didn’t leave me; I left Her,” Crowley corrected gently. “And erm.” He considered, “You gave me what you could spare, didn’t you? I’m much better off now than you were then. Don’t you think?” 

There was a smile in Aziraphale’s voice when he answered. A little one, but there it was, “Yes, my dear. I suppose you are.” 

“Much better off,” said Crowley staunchly. “That’s down to us, you know. Our erm. Friendship sounds a bit sort of. Feeble. Our usness. Anyway, is it. Can anyone really get on alone? I don’t think so. So we l-we're friends because we’ve needed each other. So what? It doesn’t mean we’re not. It’s not. You know. It’s still. It’s real.” 

“I hope you don’t mind me saying,” Aziraphale’s voice seemed to have got nearer somehow, though he’d dropped it to an intimate murmur, “You really are so lovely and sweet.”

Crowley lurched forward suddenly, “I’ve got to get out of this cupboard. I need to lie down. I’m. I’ve come over funny; I’m all lightheaded.” And he lurched again, bursting open the cupboard doors and falling on his face. 

“I say! Crowley, are you all right, my love?” 

Crowley blushed furiously and stayed facedown on the floor, as it was actually quite a convenient position for the moment, “Er yeah, think so. Get us a glass of water or something?” 

“Oh yes,” there was a little scrambling behind Crowley as Aziraphale got hastily to his feet, “Shall I help you up?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Just the water, if you don’t mind.” Crowley pushed onto his elbows, and under sudden inspiration, grew his hair long so that it fell over his face. To his disappointment, Aziraphale didn’t go to the kitchen to get the water, only conjured a glass and called a stream into being mid-air to fill the glass from. 

“There you are, my dear,” Aziraphale sank down and squatted on his heels next to Crowley, “If you give me your hand, I can heal you.” 

“I’m not ill,” protested Crowley, looking up at Aziraphale. His shades had tumbled off. He didn’t bother to replace them. They were cracked anyway, “Only a bit. Claustrophobic or something. I just needed some air.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned and reached out to stroke Crowley’s hair back from his eyes, “When did you do this?” 

Crowley drank down the glass of water and tucked it back into nonbeing, “I just fancied a change is all. Er, hairdressing I think is one of the rituals for catharsis. You. Plait it. I can. I’ll make some barrettes.” 

Aziraphale looked a little bemused, “Oh. Well that sounds lovely. I’ve always liked your hair.”

Crowley clicked to produce several butterfly clips and a wide toothed comb, “Have you?”

“Oh yes, it’s wonderfully shiny and bouncy. I was so disappointed when you cut it short.”

“At least you had the manners not to say so. Do you still remember how to do that fishtail?” 

“I think so,” said Aziraphale brightly. “Though wouldn’t you like to get off the floor?” 

Crowley decided that he would. Aziraphale tugged him up onto his feet and took his arm to walk him gingerly over to the bed. 

Aziraphale shoved the coat aside to make room for Crowley then settled in behind him and set to work on his hair at once, scraping it back from his face and plaiting it so delicately, “Oh this is lovely, my dear. I’d forgotten. Your hair is so silky and, mmm it smells sweet,” Aziraphale bent to sniff Crowley’s crown and sent a delicious prickle through him that reminded Crowley of new feathers coming in. “Smells a bit like. Tadfield,” said Aziraphale dreamily. 

“Nnnfllngk,” said Crowley and passed Aziraphale a butterfly clip. 

“I think I dreamt of you, my dear. When I was asleep,” murmured Aziraphale presently. “Do you remember being in my dreams?” 

Crowley shifted a bit, feeling mysteriously guilty, “Dreams aren’t real, Angel. I wasn’t actually there.”

“Mm,” agreed Aziraphale. “I suppose not. You were. A little out of character anyway. Still it was nice to see you, and very like you to pop by for a visit.” 

“Out of character, was I? Befriending a duck? Or dressed in jewel tones maybe?” 

Aziraphale hummed a little laugh and stroked Crowley’s finished plait, then miracled a mirror in the air for him to look at himself, “No, dear. You. You kissed me.” 

Crowley froze and dropped his butterfly clips, “And that’s out of character for me. Yes, I suppose it is.”

Aziraphale continued to stroke Crowley’s hair, “Well, I have known you for six thousand years, and you’ve never. That’s quite an extensive frame of reference.” 

“There was that masquerade ball in Marseille in 1786,” Crowley was trying not to look in the mirror. “Though that was mistaken identity. Kind of embarrassing.” 

“Slightly embarrassing, yes. Still it. Hardly ruined my evening.” 

Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, “Do you really want to be kissed, Angel? Or do you want to be comforted? You don’t have to have the kissing if what you really want is the other thing.” 

Aziraphale tucked in his chin, “I rather thought the kissing might be comforting.” 

“Right,” said Crowley slowly. “If. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather we didn’t erm. If it’s just a. You can have both, if you really want both but. If you. If it’s just a whim, I’d rather. Bit of a Pandora’s box, yeah? For. For me anyway. The kissing.” 

Something tender sort of flickered over Aziraphale’s face, “Oh! I’m being unkind. Aren’t I?” 

Crowley rubbed at his mouth, “A. A bit maybe. A little bit.” 

“It  _ did  _ occur to me that ah. Perhaps I only. Perhaps I only  _ fancied _ I’d fallen in love with you because. You’re the only one left in the world who could possibly-”

“I think a lot of people might fall in love with you, given the chance, actually,” Crowley interrupted, indignant at the idea of Aziraphale being unlovable. 

“My dear, I wasn’t finished.”

“Sorry. Go on, then.” 

Aziraphale screwed up his face in thought and drummed his fingers on Crowley’s shoulder, “Ah yes. I was saying I think. Er. I’m sorry to have muddled it all up. Terribly hard on you, I do apologise. But I haven't mistaken one for the other. I'm sure. Only I think I’ve been leaning on you so long, treating you as my partner. I didn’t even think twice about wanting to talk it all over with you. All that ruddy Heaven business. But ah. I’ve also been thinking that erm. If you’re to  _ be  _ my partner--well I mean if I’m to ask properly! I keep getting ahead of myself--, hadn’t we best. Put it all. Out on the table. So to speak?”

Crowley frowned, “But we did that already, didn’t we? Round five hundred years ago? I suppose now we’re on our own, we won’t really need to keep up The Arrangement, though.”

“I don’t-” Aziraphale checked himself, as he had been getting the tiniest bit shouty. “I don’t mean The Arrangement. I don’t mean partners in work. Oh dear, it’s. Difficult getting the language just right. Lovers sounds rather frivolous in this sort of situation. I mean. What I propose is that. We go on caring for each other, as. As we always have done--well you’ve been more er well perhaps this isn’t the time to go comparing--anyway ah. We look after each other, and now that we  _ can _ , we  _ talk _ about it. And perhaps. If you like. If you’re. Interested. The odd--well less occasionally than occasionally or perhaps it should be more occasionally than occasionally?--the odd handful of. Of. Kisses?” 

“Humans,” said Crowley recklessly before he got tongue-tied again. “I think humans call it marriage.” 

Aziraphale smiled, ducked his head, and Crowley could have sworn he heard the feathery whisper of wings, “Yes, well. I am familiar with that term, but it seemed rather bold as a. First er. Well!” 

“Bit bold, yeah,” Crowley agreed. “Maybe we should try the kissing first. See if it agrees with us?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to make another of his jumbled little speeches, then thought better of it and kissed Crowley. Kissed Crowley and clung to him as if they might otherwise be carried away on a sudden swell of lightness and joy. 


End file.
